


Mint Condition

by Legendaerie



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Child Abuse, College AU, Fluff with Background Angst, M/M, Past physical abuse, Pumpkin Spice vs Peppermint AU, coffee shop AU, implied background Alistair/Tabris
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-15
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-06 21:56:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5432237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Legendaerie/pseuds/Legendaerie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If it wasn't linked to peppermint, someone might call it a habit, or an obsession. But because it just so happens to coincide with the "most wonderful time of the year" it can be called a holiday tradition. Probably. Technically.</p><p>In any case, Fenris needs some coffee; and the baristas of the Hung Man are only too happy to make it as complicated as possible for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I was born to write gay relationships and terrible, terrible jokes
> 
> A haphazard Christmas present for Katie (my beautiful fish-sitter and favorite store clerk), Betsey (my Porn Enabler who is still my friend even after I made her play Transistor), Theo (the most patient friend I've had in ages who has joined me in Love Live Hell & lets me babble about Alistait ad nauseum) and Fennel (who I've followed on Twitter for years and Only Now have had something in common with)
> 
> Enjoy this??? I guess?? I write the weirdest stuff for Christmas.

Fenris has a tradition.

It's a fairly recent one, only cropped up in the past few years as he finally escaped to college and started painstakingly building a life for himself, but it's an important one. Drink the very first cup of peppermint coffee of the year from the local cafe.

Why?

Well, there's probably some deep psychological reason behind his actions but Fenris prefers to, for once, stick to the surface and say it's because peppermint is _delicious_. Mint anything is probably his favorite; there's peppermint oil in his lip balm for heaven's sake. It's an unappreciated flavor that just so happens to also be good for the stomach and it tastes like cold feels. It's just the best, objectively. Anyone who says they don't like mint is wrong.

Which is why, his first year in a state college eight hours away by car from his stepfather, Fenris starts dropping by The Hung Man in November.

Normally, he doesn't really drink much coffee - it tastes too burned, and it makes his scarred throat constrict - so it's his first time heading there this Monday morning. It's the only independently run place (another requirement) within walking distance of his apartment, tucked beside Duncan's Bakery which loudly declares to not sell doughnuts, and across the street from a liquor store called Alien Age that he tries (and fails) not to frequent.

It's pouring down rain, and Fenris tucks his narrow shoulders under his umbrella as he waits for the walk signal, wiggling his numb toes occasionally in his boots. Another thing he likes about November, or cold weather in general; scarves. By now he's more or less gotten used to the jagged, rippling pattern of scar tissue that drips down his chin and neck, starkly white against his medium complexion and disappearing under the collar of his shirt; but having the option of hiding is still a nice one to have. He is a survivor and he's proud of that, but people tend to stare and he has never liked the extra attention. So he sighs into the loose, lightweight silky scarf, relishing in the refracted warmth of his breath as the light changes and he crosses the street into the cafe.

He shakes off his umbrella outside, taps it upside-down on the rug twice for good measure, and only then looks up at the board. An advertisement for Pumpkin Spice, his seasonal flavor nemesis, takes up an entire panel of the five frames of old-fashioned chalkboard behind the counter; Fenris is sorely tempted to gag and leave immediately, but a crack of thunder outside makes his decision for him. For the moment, at least, he will stay, and he takes in the rest of the establishment.

The overall theme is probably aiming for rustic, but it skirts dangerously close to shady back alley; rough brick walls line the sitting area to his left, with a cast iron chandelier radiating gentle golden light on the barely-mismatched chairs and table. There's a shelf of mugs and boxes of coffee for sale on the right, with little clusters of artificial leaves clinging desperately to the corners and edges. Said decorations bleed out to the counter itself, with a cornucopia of somewhat bruised apples sitting front and center above a glass case of some of Duncan's Not-Doughnuts. Fenris rather hopes the decaying decorations indicate a coming storm of snowflakes, red stripes, and obnoxious songs about reindeer, as opposed to unenthusiastic staff.

He stands several feet away from the counter, where a man about his age makes coffee while looking distressingly lumberjack-esque. Dark hair, short but thick beard, red flannel shirt rolled up to the elbows under his cream apron; a jingle for last decade's paper towel commercial pops into Fenris' head. It's a little absurd, but a lot of things have caught him off guard here at Kirkwall. He can handle getting coffee from a commercial icon.

Eying a cinnamon roll, he steps up to the counter.

“Welcome to the Hung Man!” greets the lumberjack/barista? Lumbaristajack? Fenris checks the name tag; HAWKE screeches at him in all capital letters.

“Shouldn't it be the Hanged Man?” he asks, fishing out his wallet.

The paper towel mascot grins at him when he looks back up. “Not on a college campus,” Hawke beams.

It takes him a second to get it, and Fenris cracks a low laugh into his scarf. “I'll take a cinnamon roll. With pecans, please.” Fenris exchanges a few folded bills for the food; caught off guard, the underside of his wrist catches the light. His tendons flex under the age-blurred, pale splashes of scar tissue. To his credit, Hawke's smile barely falters as he accepts the money.

“Your change is--”

Sixteen cents. “Keep it,” Fenris nods to the tip jar and recoils to the corner of the sitting area, out of sight of what he assumes could be a pitying gaze.

He's still new here, to Kirkwall University and the greater Sundermount area, so it's unlikely that he'd be bothered if he stays here for a while; slipping a novel out of his messenger bag, he reads absently between bites of pastry until the food and the rain are long gone.

He'll come back tomorrow, after therapy. Maybe he'll get lucky.

* * *

Fenris is not lucky the rest of that week: Pumpkin Spice continues to reign supreme every time he visits and the clouds hang heavy and grey over everything else. Or if he is lucky, he uses it all up in the waiting room of the university's mental health clinic on Friday. The red headed woman is there again, purple lipstick accentuating the tense purse of her mouth as she pours over a textbook, but she tucks a bookmark in place when he exits his session and audibly groans at the sight of the umbrella at her ankles. He knew he was forgetting something.

They've spoken a few times; her name is Tabris, and she brings her cousin here for sessions every other week. She's a grad student in something he's forgotten, and if he didn't feel like it would be wildly inappropriate he'd ask her out for coffee some time. Platonically.

“If you're heading to the Hung Man again,” she starts, her voice low and soft, library-quiet, “you're welcome to borrow my umbrella. I brought an extra.”

Leaning down, Tabris fishes a compact, cow-spotted tube from a massive backpack and offers it to him. He can't help it. He hesitates.

“Why?” he asks, caution making his tone flat.

“I work at Alien Age, just across the street. I notice you go there a lot.” If she means anything by that comment, she's good at burying it. Her voice stays as calm and still as a stagnant pool, dark eyes betraying nothing. “Return it when you have the time. No rush.”

Oh. He feels slightly foolish and wonders if he’s seen her cousin working there before; a giddy young woman with a flame-red messy short bob. “That's... Nice of you.”

Tabris seems oddly pleased by that, and shakes the umbrella in her outstretched hand. Waggles it enticingly in his direction. Fenris accepts it and heads out the door, starting the long walk to the opposite end of campus in the rain.

Even though he ducks through as many buildings as he can on the way, the shins of his skinny jeans are splattered with filthy city rainwater by the time he slips inside the Hung Man. The lumbaristajack - it’s catchy, like gum on the sole of a shoe - is working again, as opposed to the compact ginger man who was working there on Thursday. V something. He wasn’t paying attention, too focused on how someone else had already taken the chair he was starting to mark as his.

But today they have been restocked with what looks like fresh pretzels alongside typical cafe fare, and he idles by the display case as the man - bird? wasn’t his name bird-like? - talks to a slender, pale woman with dark hair. The dreaded Pumpkin Spice advert still looms over everything like the Eye of Sauron, but the low hum of indie music and the gentle lighting makes the cafe an ideal place to study, defiantly, in the public eye so he takes his time and listens in on the conversation.

“... grit gets between my toes, but I can’t bring myself to wear boots yet. They’re just too constricting! They pinch so badly, Hawke, and it’s cold but…”

Fenris glances down at the woman’s feet, which do look exceptionally cold in stylish sandals made for June, and then back at the pretzels. They’re more expensive than the cinnamon rolls, but they’re more filling. Then again, pecans probably have some kind of protein, right?

By the time he’s made his selection, the young woman is watching him keenly over a cup filled with what looks suspiciously like green foam. Fenris’ heart clenches. It’s only the 8th of November, and there’s not a sign up yet - surely not. “What is that?” he rasps.

She takes a sip and almost a step backward. “Matcha latte. It’s very good.”

He tries not to let his shoulders sag too much with relief when he turns back to the lumb-- Hawke. Turns to Hawke and gives his order.

“Pretzel, please. And, um…” A glance out the corner of his eye confirms that Matchbook Latte is still staring at him, eyes a darker shade of green than his own and a little film of greenish foam on her upper lip. “... are you allowed to tell me if you’re getting a peppermint flavor in soon?” he asks, determined to ignore her.

One of Hawke’s eyebrows raise. “I’m… not sure. Let me ask my boss.” He leans away from the counter and cups his hands around his mouth, calling into the brightly lit back kitchen to his left. “Hey, Varric!”

The leprechaun barista shuffles into sight, rubber gloves soap-slick and clinging to his biceps - seriously why do both of the men who work here look like they could bench-press a small car? - and gives the latte girl a smile. “Hey, Daisy. Yeah?” he turns back to Hawke.

“This guy wants to know when we’re getting Candy Cane Lane in. What do you think?” Hawke talks as he deftly plucks a pretzel from the display, barely disturbing a single salt crystal as he folds it into a loose paper sleeve. “Should we… spill the beans?”

Another pun. Fenris snorts, a couple soft laughs escaping before he notices how… fervently everyone is watching him. Daisy’s eyes have gone huge, foam-mustached mouth forming a little ‘o’ of surprise, Hawke’s boss looks suspiciously like he lost a bet, and Hawke is…

…staring at his smile. Or his mouth. Or, most likely, his chin.

He’d not brought a scarf today; hot with shame, Fenris makes a show of coughing into his hand before he forces his gaze to meet Hawke’s again. But there’s not pity, no curiosity. Maybe a little curiosity, okay, but mostly he just looks inordinately pleased with himself.

“Well,” Varric starts, breaking the moment - were they having a moment? God, did he just accidentally have a bonding experience with someone over a pun? - “we’ll put in an order for that flavor probably sometime in the next couple weeks. After that, well, who can really say when it could arrive? Especially with the weather we’re having.”

“Right,” Fenris replies automatically, swapping cash for a pretzel and this time accepting change. “... What?”

“We can’t tell you,” Hawke translates.

Varric grins. “Guess you’ll just have to keep coming back and checking if you want the first cup of the year.”

Fenris scowls at the stocky man, taking an unnecessarily violent bite of his pretzel. “Thanks,” he states dryly, flicking a glance Hawke’s way. The man still doesn’t look that apologetic, either for that pun or the subterfuge, but he’s not still staring like Daisy is.

At least she’s licked the foam off her lips when she follows him to the sitting area. He takes his seat defiantly, pulling out his physics homework as she chatters on, occupying herself with a one-sided conversation.

“I think we’re in the same Classics class, aren’t we?” They are. “I’m Merrill. Um… Fennel? Is that your name?” No. “Would you like to study together sometime?”

He spares her a dry look at last as he taps the eraser end of his pencil against the table. "I need to study.”

“Oh,” she coos apologetically. “Okay. Some other time!” Daisy-Merrill retreats back to the counter, and Fenris very deliberately ignores her and takes another bite out of his pretzel. It's honestly delicious, and a willing price to eat it unsquashed from carting it home in his bag. He pours himself into reading, and soon becomes lost in it.

It's not until a cup of water with FENNEL written on it in marker appears in his line of sight that he realizes he's been there long enough for the sky to darken.

“Mail's come and gone, by the way,” Hawke elaborates, still looking somewhat absurd in his apron and his flannel and his beard. Attractive (Fenris is not blind, just cautious and generally uninterested) but absurd. “We don't close for another three hours, so.”

He's not being kicked out. Fenris slides the cup a few inches closer in quiet acceptance of the gift. “No peppermint yet?” he asks.

"Do you think I'd tell you if there was?” Hawke replies, cheekily.

Fenris hesitates. Reflex says no, he doesn't trust that this stranger would be so kind to him; but he's been trying to fight reflex in so many ways. Going to a therapist at all, even if it's just his third visit, is proof of that; since no one had listened to him growing up, he'd stopped trying to tell them what his step-father did to him. Even when he'd been hospitalized for ' _accidentally tipping a pot of boiling water on himself_.'

“I think you would,” he says instead. And it's a lie, and far the first (or last) one he’s made, but it's what he wants to believe. Judging by the pleased cast to Hawke's face, however, it might have had some truth to it.

“I honestly don't know when it's coming--” Hawke starts, but his eyes snap away from Fenris to the cafe door as it opens (he abruptly notices their color; pumpkin spice brown, of course) and he retreats to greet the next customer.

Fenris takes a small sip of the water, manages not to spill it on his notes, and stares blankly out the window, lost in a new train of thought. The baristas were vague, but still gave Fenris some basis for a plan. Since the syrup was coming in the mail, he should aim to get there around 4pm every day. Or 4:30pm, since his manuscripts class didn’t let out until then on Thursdays and Tuesdays. And no point in going in on Sunday, since no mail on Sundays - maybe if he shifted his grocery shopping to Saturdays, he could drive by on his way home?

Fenris suppresses the urge to smack himself in the face with his physics textbooks and weighs his life and his choices. Bonding over puns, rearranging his life around coffee… What could possibly be worse?


	2. Chapter 2

On Monday, he first stops at Alien Age and swaps the borrowed umbrella for a bottle of Moscato that was on sale. It’s a slow afternoon, so Fenris has the time to pack the bottle into his messenger bag and pad it with the crumpled pages of a C+ graded paper from two weeks ago. The woman behind the counter is indeed Tabris’ cousin Shianni, who somehow looks at home in the dated space-themed decor. Glass bottles and hookah pipes alike line the walls, along with fold-marked retro posters of obscure bands and a cosmic-patterned banner behind the counter boldly proclaiming THE TRUTH IS OUT THERE.

Shianni is still holding out his receipt for him when Fenris looks up from his packing. There’s only a shadow of similarity between her face and her cousin’s, and almost none in their mannerisms. This redhead is grinning boyishly at him, a smattering of freckles blooming across her faintly red cheeks. They only thing they share is their tendency to smile at him. 

“Are you drunk? On shift?” he asks, something like envy edging into his voice. Shianni shrugs and takes a sip from a water bottle that he suspects isn't filled with water at all.

“Boss can’t fire me if I’m the boss.”

He is tempted to ask, pointedly, if she visits the mental health clinic for an alcohol dependency, but both of them are interrupted by a clatter in the back of the store. Shianni caps the bottle, a fierce expression painting her androgynous features, and cups her hands around her mouth.

“I can see you back there, Daveth! And I know every last bottle!”

Fenris finally takes the receipt and his leave, nodding to Shianni as her brother Soris emerges from the back room at the commotion, and he leaves them to bicker among themselves. It’s a clear afternoon with little traffic, so he doesn’t have to wait for the light when he crosses the street to the Hung Man.

The cafe is emptier than he’s used to seeing it in the morning, but Hawke is still there, familiar and constant and the same kind of tacky-charming as the decor. Fenris sidesteps as a woman retreats with a cup of coffee, and he approaches the register.

“I’ll have a,” he starts, flipping through his wallet; but as he counts his bills, he finds considerably less than he’d hoped. His shoulders creep upward as he hunches them, fighting down a nauseous feeling of shame as he does some mental math. The baked goods are delicious, and help steel his nerves as he tries to ignore the intermittent stares his way, but they’ve drained more from his wallet then he realized.

“You don’t have to get anything if you just want to study here,” Hawke cuts in, pushing his rolled sleeves back up past his elbow. Fenris has a twinge of envy at the unblemished, pale skin of the barista’s arms, marked only by a fine layer of dark hair and the occasional freckle. Thankfully, he doesn’t stare for long as Hawke continues. “You’re welcome to stick around.”

“I’m welcome?” he asks; fingers stilling their nervous riffling through bills. His shoulders start to ease down, the distressed seizing in his muscles ebbing away. Fenris doesn’t mean for it to come out so softly; then again, he might. He’s not sure. About anything.

“Sure,” and Hawke gestures to yet another broad-shouldered man - why is everyone in this cafe so big? He feels small and fragile by comparison, and it’s infuriating - sitting by the window, staring across the street. “We keep Alistair around, and all he does is pine.”

The sound of his name seems to get his attention; Alistair breaks out of his wistful lean and glares across the room. There’s no one else in the cafe, so his voice carries clearly. “I do not pine!”

“If you pined much more, I could string lights around you and use you as a Christmas decoration,” Hawke fires back. Fenris bites the inside of his lip around a grin, against his better judgement. “Anyway,” and his attention snaps back to the barista as Hawke continues. “You can just hang around if you want. At least until the mail’s come and gone.”

“Thank you,” Fenris replies softly, still a little off-kilter. It’s like walking on an icy sidewalk; he has to tread carefully, but he can’t just stop. He has to keep going forward. “I’ll do that.”

He studies in his typical chair - willow-backed, austere and with a slightly sticky finish on the legs - to the ambient noise of crooned vocals, gentle guitar, and the occasional banter across the room between the pining man and Hawke. And then it hits him that he _feels_ welcome; not just because of Hawke’s cheerful and casual acceptance of his presence, but because he reciprocates. A mutual feeling of comfort, shared between himself and the Hung Man and it’s primary barista.

It’s unusual, but it’s… nice. Worth the occasional looks and second looks his way, worth the price of the occasional baked good and the mocking loom of the ever-present Pumpkin Spice. This is worth it to him.

Fenris offers Hawke a small, absent smile in return for a cup of water labeled FENUGREEK and continues to study. 

* * *

The problem with habits and traditions is that after a while, other people start to notice them. Like Tabris (with her coy umbrella-lending) and Hawke (with his jokes and cups of water with varying F names written on them) and even Hawke’s apparent boss. So on Thursday, Fenris finds himself being followed to the Hung Man.

Maybe on another day, he would have been unnerved, but it’s the end of a long day that started at 8am the day before due to all-nighting a paper he’d totally forgotten. And then the scars on his chest had started aching intermittently during Classics, and he’d been so distracted he’d probably failed their pop quiz. Merrill gushed concern over his haggard looks and tried to coax him into a group study session, which he had declined, but now she’s walking just behind him, breaking into a trot every block or so to keep up with his grueling pace.

If it was anyone else, on any other day, he might have been a little unnerved. Instead, the only thing Fenris feels can be best described as _fight me._

He refuses to rise to the bait of any of her attempts at conversation which included, in order; their class, the weather, shoes, their teacher and finally Hawke. That had been harder to ignore, and he suspects she might have noticed his interest, since she started gabbling on about the cafe next.

“So you like to study at the Hung Man as well? Lovely place, isn’t it. I think it smells very nice, and Hawke always lets me know when they have danishes in stock since he knows someone who works at Duncan’s. I love danishes. Have you ever had one?”

Fenris snorts and deliberately steps out into the street, narrowly ducking between speeding cars and jay-walking with the kind of haphazard boldness only granted to the angry. That, at least, gives Merrill pause; he stops at the doorway to the cafe to glance across the street. Her face, while distorted by the blur of traffic, has melted into a dewy pout as she apparently waits for the walk signal.

His triumph is like a spark; bright, warm and glittery, but also very short-lived. It’s not Hawke behind the counter, nor is it Varric. It’s a woman with skin just a shade darker than his, but there any chance of resemblance ends. She’s dark-haired, curvaceous, and grinning broadly behind the counter - nothing, either, like a lumberjack.

“Where’s Hawke?” he asks flatly, his obsession with peppermint briefly overshadowed by his confusion. The woman - _Isabela_ , sings the nametag clinging desperately to the tie of her apron that appears to conceal some serious cleavage - cocks her eyebrow.

“He’s off today. Who are you?”

He’s still not told anyone here his name; no particular reason, but he’s hesitant to give it. Thankfully, the sudden flare of revelation that crosses her face interrupts anything he would have said.

“Ohhh, you’re the peppermint guy who laughs at all of Hawke’s terrible jokes?”

The defensive tightening in his shoulders returns; Fenris deflects with the first thing that pops into his mind, especially since Hawke’s not there to hear it: “Terrible is a subjective term,” which is the wrong thing, apparently. Isabela’s face shifts into an expression he can only call predatory, the golden ball of her labret piercing catching the light and gleaming mischievously.

“Can I get you anything?” she asks sweetly. "Other than Hawke's number?"

The temptation to ask for it, however brief, is _mortifying_. Fenris grits his teeth and gets back to business.

“Is the peppermint coffee in yet?” He hears the door jingle behind him and presses his lips into an irritated line. He will not be bullied out of his favorite spot on campus by two meddling ladies. He will not.

“No,” Isabela admits, leaning forward and confirming his suspicions about the low cut to her blouse, “but surely you’ve got another favorite flavor? Salted caramel, maybe? You seem the type.”

Fenris gives her the flattest stare he can manage, feeling himself get drawn in to her conversation anyway. She’s magnetic, and very pretty, and also apparently very good friends with Hawke. All interesting details. “I seem the type.”

“What are we discussing?” Merrill chimes in, and Fenris closes his eyes. Traditions. Victories. They’re both important to him. He can be strong. He will not leave and hide in Alien Age among the wine bottles.

“What flavor our Broody Brewster is, as Hawke calls him. Oh, maybe he's a Gingerbread House? It's basically Pumpkin Spice but in December, with a bit of white chocolate."

“Cinnamon roll with pecans,” he demands, slapping down exact change on the counter in hopes of ending this conversation as soon as possible. Isabela takes his cash with a fluid movement, her gaze over his shoulder as Merrill starts excitedly listing teas.

“Ooooh, I think Earl Grey would suit him. It’s a very mature, bitter kind of tea. Not that I want to imply that he’s bitter or anything, but it’s-- oh, or maybe herbal peppermint? I mean, it’s a minty tea even if it’s not-- it doesn’t taste like peppermint candy, which is a shame, but it’s still good.”

It takes Isabela an eternity to pass him the cinnamon roll, and by that time Fenris feels as though he might have cracked a molar from how tightly he’s been gritting his teeth. At least his typical chair is empty - small victories, focus on the small victories - and he all but flings himself into it, hunching himself around his Manuscripts notes.

At five past five - which is just beyond the typical time for mail to arrive, during which Isabela checks him out no less than seven times as she wipes down untouched tables - Fenris bolts to Alien Age and grabs the cheapest bottle of peppermint schnapps he can find. Which isn't very cheap but fuck it, finals are four weeks away and then he has to answer his sister's calls about if he's coming home for the holidays or not. And he does not want to be sober when he makes that call.

The pining guy - Alistair - is puttering around the beer aisle when Fenris goes to check out. Tabris is at the register today, and she tears her gaze away from the man in the back as Fenris hands her the schnapps bottle and his driver's license.

"Bad day?" She asks, with just a pinch of judgement. Or concern, maybe. It's hard to tell and neither are very welcome to him at the moment.

"Forty hour day," he clarifies; then his mouth runs away with him and he adds, "Hawke is out sick."

"Hawke?"

Shit. "The barista next door," he continues, tone flat and exhausted even as the back of his mind howls with rage at his tongue's actions. "He's supposed to be working today, and he isn't."

"Oh," she concludes, ringing his schnapps up and glancing again in Alistair's direction. "I see."

He forks over the cash and waits, violin-string tense and high-strung. She works quickly and efficiently; a balance between Shianni's friendly but distracted service and Soris' awkward focused silence.

"See you at the usual time after Thanksgiving break?" she asks. He frowns, doing some mental calculations; he probably does indeed have a therapist's appointment by then.

"Of course," and just as she's turning away to bag up the schnapps bottle, there's a crash immediately behind Fenris. His body moves of its own accord out of the way - but not fast enough to avoid all of the wet splatter of wine as a bottle slips from Alistair's hand.

Fenris takes another half step back with a crunch of glass and a flare of frightened, violent rage; the glare he gives Alistair is sharp enough to cut through steel, but it's like the man doesn't even notice. He just stands there, in the mess of things, with a flash of a pained expression on his face. Just as fast, though, it's gone.

"Oh shit," and it almost burbles out in a self deprecating laugh, as Alistair runs his hand through his hair. "Shit, I, um..."

"Don't move," Tabris orders from behind the counter, grabbing a roll of paper towels and slapping her hand on the back room door as she comes around the corner. "Soris, take the register. Here," and she passes Fenris the peppermint schnapps he'd almost forgotten. The worst of his ire is gone as he backs away, sticking slightly to the floor as Tabris kneels and Alistair follows suit.

"No, don't do that, you'll cut yourself--"

"It's fine, I've done this before--"

"At least let me help, it’s all my fault--"

Soris emerges with a bucket of cleaning supplies and Fenris takes that as an excuse to leave; it's a small enough store that he feels crowded in there already, and welcomes the fresh air as he lets himself out. There is spots of wine on his shins and sticking to the bottom of his shoes, but there are worse things to smell all the way home.

The sun is almost entirely set by the time he gets home to his apartment; his neighbor from downstairs is standing beside the back door, sighing clouds of smoke into the purple-grey evening. He’s still vaguely irritated, deep under his skin, and he bites the tip of his tongue to keep himself from picking yet another fight. His grip on the neck of the schnapps bottle has gotten tight and sweaty. He switches hands.

"I got more of your mail again," Anders states as Fenris steps into the light of the back porch lamp. "Slid it under your door."

"Thanks," he manages, and slips past the guy without further conversation. They're civil, but only just; and Anders has the annoying habit of slipping activist brochures in with the mail whenever someone misreads Apartment 1 for Apartment 11. This time, when Fenris plods exhaustively up the stairs and unlocks his door, there's a PETA flyer on top of a letter.

Later. He'll deal with both of them later. With everything later. Right now he's going to drink himself calm, and then he's going to sleep. Everything else can wait. 

* * *

Friday was a bust. He all but dragged himself, hungover and silently miserable, to class and skipped the Hung Man on his way home. Saturday blurred into Sunday and he's nearly out of schnapps by the time he emerges from his apartment on Monday with the last round of papers that had to be written before Thanksgiving Break.

He’s just fired off a text to his sister - “well i bet you would feel worse if i wrecked my car trying to get there” - when he pushes the door to the Hung Man open. Hawke is, mercifully, at the register even if he looks exhausted, and Fenris lets out a breath of relief.

And that’s been another thing on his mind as he slowly drank himself in and out of consciousness - Aveline is going to give him A Look if he brings that up in their next therapy session - how easily Hawke assimilated himself into Fenris’ routine. Which is still a little baffling to him. Not just that he finds himself enjoying being around Hawke, but that Hawke for the most part seems to enjoy being around him. He feels like he’s fumbling around in the dark and somehow, inexplicably doing something right; but _what_ he’s doing exactly remains to be seen.

For the moment, however, he finds it worth the unfamiliarity. At least until he’s had his peppermint coffee. And since there’s still a few stubborn silken oak leaves on the walls, and the smug Pumpkin Spice advert on the board, he’ll have to wait a little bit longer.

“You look like you’re violating several health codes,” he chides. Hawke blinks; a somewhat delayed response, and his hazel eyes are bleary.

“I missed you, too.” Blithely, the barista plows on before Fenris can so much as stare, wide-eyed and startled. “I’ve also been on antibiotics all weekend. Not contagious, I swear.”

“You still look terrible,” he counters weakly, trying to conceal the delighted little flutter in his chest at Hawke’s joke. He really did miss seeing him. 

“And I still gotta eat. Speaking of which?” Hawke tilts his head to the side, which is the first bird-like thing he’s ever seen him do. 

The buzz of his phone in his pocket interrupts the moment. “I’ll take a pretzel, I guess,” and he hands over some cash. “Keep the change.” As soon as the words are out of his mouth, he doubts them. Does that seem too generous, in the light of his previous thrift? 

But Hawke just offers him the pretzel with a smile, so Fenris retreats to his usual chair in his usual way and tries to settle back into normal. Or as normal as he can get, with his sister Varania trying to get their family (family being an incredibly loose term) together for thanksgiving despite a possible snowstorm headed towards Sundermount. A couple inches had accumulated over the weekend already, but as many as eight were predicted to fall on Thursday.

He takes a bite of pretzel - which he also sorely missed having - and reads the rather bitter sounding “just say you’ll come if the weather holds, okay?” she sends in reply, and lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

“Checking your grades?”

Fenris startles at the sound of a voice; it’s Hawke’s boss, the short one. Varric, he thinks. “They’re not posted yet,” he replies, somewhat defensively, as he draws his pretzel in closer to his chest. Varric takes the seat across from him, a hot cup of something in each hand. Fenris could be rude and tell him to piss off to his own chair, but technically this man owns the place, so he keeps his mouth shut.

“Tea?” Varric offers.

“What kind?”

“Lemon echinacea.”

Fenris leans forward and carefully takes a sniff. It smells herbal, slightly cloying-sweet with only an edge of citrus to cut it. “Is it free?”

“Do you see me charging you for it? Of course it’s free.”

Fenris slides the cup towards himself, and suddenly two little packets of honey and a wooden stirring stick appear on the table between them. “Thanks.”

Varric grunts, but doesn’t touch the other cup. He just turns to face the front windows, where the foot traffic is sparse on the sidewalk and the sky is grey and cold with the promise of snow. “Shouldn’t Alistair be here by now?”

It sounds more like he’s thinking aloud, so Fenris doesn’t comment - just warms his hands on his cup and waits for the tea to steep. So does Varric, apparently, though with less patience. He never seems still, always tapping his fingers or calling a greeting to someone from across the room. It makes it a littler harder to study, but by now he’s pretty much burnt out so Fenris just takes another bite of pretzel and watches the snow.

When Hawke arrives, bearing his usual cup of water, Varric abruptly stands. “Take your fifteen minutes and drink some tea, Hawke. It’s my mother’s special herbal blend; it’ll clear up your cold in no time.”

“Oh,” Hawke says, with exactly the same amount of confusion that Fenris feels in the brief space between _wait what_ and _oh no_.  “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it. I mean, really, don’t mention it or Rivaini will be demanding free coffee on all her breaks.” Varric gives Fenris a nod and then vanishes, presumably to run the counter. Hawke eases himself into Varric's chair and grabs Varric’s tea, taking an easy swig of the hot, unsweetened beverage without hesitation.

There’s a beat of silence, where Fenris notes the fact that this is the closest they’ve ever been and that their knees are practically touching underneath the table. He grabs for the water cup to have something to do with his mouth and almost spills it all over himself at the sight of the name.

“Fenrir?” he asks. It’s eerily close to his own name, and he’s more spooked than flattered at the idea that Hawke might have done research on him.

“Werewolf guy from Harry Potter.  You know?”

“I never read Harry Potter.” He takes a sip of the water anyway, because the salt from the pretzel is making him a little thirsty, and watches Hawke’s eyes go wide with surprise. They are a rather attractive shade of brown, with dark thick eyebrows reigning above them.

“Never-- really?” Hawke asks, setting his cup down to lean slouch forward in interest. “You’ve never read Harry Potter?”

“I’m not a fan of fantasy and magic. I like realistic fiction.”

Hawke snorts and takes another drink. Fenris dimly wonders if he’s going to choke on the tea bag by accident. “What, like crime dramas?”

Miffed, Fenris takes a bite of pretzel and looks away. From here, he can almost make out the flash of red that is Tabris working across the street. And no Alistair. He wonders--

“Oh my god, you _do_ like crime dramas.”

“I like pretending justice exists,” he fires back - just because Hawke is still a little sick doesn’t mean Fenris should go easy on him for having shit opinions - around a salty mouthful. “Rather than wishes and wands and dragons.”

“Dragons are cool.”

“They are _lizards_.”

“Lizards are cool,” Hawke insists. Fenris rolls his eyes and very, very carefully samples the tea. Still too hot for him to drink, so he fishes a couple ice cubes out of his water and eases them in.

“I suppose," he relents. Never been a fan of reptiles, especially. Or fish. Never liked fish in any form.

“Not a pet person either?” Hawke watches Fenris over the brim of his cup.

They’re getting a little too close to the subject of childhoods, which is a bit intense for a fifteen minute discussion over tea, so Fenris flawlessly and smoothly changes the subject. “Will this cafe be open for Thanksgiving break?”

Hawke takes another sip of tea and shrugs his enviably broad shoulders. “Not on Thursday, but on Friday… could be. I’ll be taking the day off, though. And mail probably won’t come in. Still, Isabela wouldn’t mind the company.”

“So she _is_ your friend.” He takes the last bite of his pretzel and chews slowly, savoring it.

His companion pokes one of the packets of honey, squishing it gently. “You seem surprised," he says, sounding more amused than offended.

“She said your jokes were terrible.”

“Terrible is a subjective term,” Hawke replies smoothly; Fenris chokes, and coughs as discreetly as he can into his fist as Hawke continues. “But that’s what I like about her. She’s kind of terrible, too.”

“And me? Am I terrible?” he wheezes, somewhat nonsensically, as he clears his throat of all pretzel. Exchanging the tea bag for the contents of one honey packet, Fenris tries another cautious sip as Hawke studies him. If those hazel eyes slip down to the scars on his throat, well. That’s inevitable.

“I don’t know yet. I suppose you’re terrible at _something_ , but I haven’t seen it.” Hawke stands and chugs the rest of the tea, pulling a napkin out of his apron pocket and dabbing his beard clean afterwards. “I just hope for your sake it’s not exams.”

Fenris raises his tea a couple inches off the table in a mock toast, then twists around in his chair to watch Hawke leave. The skin on his neck is too tight for him to turn around completely, but he still can see enough to turn back to his own tea with a bit of heat in his cheeks.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I set out to write a light, amusing coffee shop AU. Whether I accomplished that or not is up to you.
> 
> But I'd like to wish a very Merry Christmas to you all; especially those who have to leave their real family to be with the ones they're related to. This is for you. This is for us. You'll be okay.
> 
> (alistair's cookie recipie is pending)

  
The forecast promises a fifty percent chance of snow when he gets out of class on Wednesday, so Fenris heads home, packs some clothes and the thankfully small amount of homework he needs to get done for break and is on the road just as the sun starts to set. He had only recently gotten the heater in the tiny, nine year old Kia fixed because believe it or not he does have some foresight on occasion, and as the car warms up he turns the radio on low. Classical Christmas music trickles in, punctuated by bursts of static, and he lets his mind wander as he creeps through campus traffic.

Home is not something he wants to think about at all, even if it’s the first time he will have seen Varania since she moved out three years ago, leaving him alone with their stepfather. Even if he suspects this is her way of trying to apologise for abandoning him to the man that abused them both. No, he’d rather not dream up doomsday scenarios of what could happen when they’re all together again; so instead he tries to think of more pleasant things. Like peppermint coffee, peppermint ice cream, peppermint schnapps and Hawke.

All the things that will be waiting for him when he gets back, if he just holds out for a few days.

Traffic finally clears once he reaches the edge of town; without hesitation, he takes the back road as his borrowed (courtesy of Tabris, again, who said that all the family she had lived in Sundermount now) GPS stutters out a recalculation. It’s getting dark fast - he’s not sure if that’s from the weather or the hour - and snow is finally starting to fall, but he’s confident in his abilities to drive. Also, if he admits it to himself, he’s still a little pissed at his sister for guilting him into this trip.

Which is why he blames her when he hits a patch of black ice and skids neatly off the road and into the remains of a cornfield.

“Shit!” he barks, grabbing onto the steering wheel as his car swerves, hitting the brakes on instinct; but it’s no use. Barren stalks patter against the grill of the Kia, and he manages to get the car to a stop a good ten feet off the road. “Shit,” he exhales again, resting his forehead on the wheel and trying to calm his pounding, frantic pulse. Fenris can feel it fluttering in his neck, making his scars throb, and he bites the inside of his lip as if he can somehow distract himself from an uncontrollable hurt with a self-inflicted one.

The music on the radio is still playing, merry and oblivious; he turns it off in order to brainstorm properly. Putting the car into reverse and backing up gives him slow, jolting progress to the edge of the field, and then as the ground slopes up to meet the road his Kia gives up, tires skidding in the drifting snow from the weekend’s sudden flurry. He is stuck. Is he supposed to get out and push in situations like this? He can’t remember. And the only phone numbers he has are Aveline’s and (in a moment of weakness in their Tuesday class) Merrill’s. Neither of them does he really want to call to try to help him pull his car back onto the road, so.

He rolls up his coat sleeves, steps out of the car, and starts trying to dig tracks for his car out of the snow.

A short eternity later, by which time his teeth are starting to chatter and he can't get warmth back into his fingertips no matter how much he rubs them together, a pickup truck rolls up and pulls to the side of the road. Once again, Fenris feels small and cold, and he steps back as the car door opens.

"Oh… Glad I took the back roads."

In the bright light of the headlights, it’s a little hard to make out who it is, but the voice sounds vaguely familiar. He hesitates, and then hazards a guess.

“Alistair?” he asks.

“Yeah. Hi.” Alistair steps to the side, and Fenris can make out the awkward, cold hunch of his shoulders. “What happened to you?”

“I slid off the road. The car is fine, but I’m having some trouble getting it out.” He tucks his fingers under his arms, trying to get them warm again, but his words still jitter from his shivers. “I don’t suppose you would mind helping, would you?”

“Um, I think I’ve got a chain in the back. Hop in the cab for a sec, warm up, okay? Oh, and what’s your name?”

“Fenris.” He holds out his hand on instinct.

“Nice to meet-- oh my god, your hands are freezing.” Alistair recoils from the handshake almost immediately. “Yes, get in the cab while I check the bed.”

It’s too cold to not accept his help; Fenris clambers into the warm cab that smells faintly of air freshener and hums with the idle chatter of a radio talk show. Sitting on his hands to warm them, he watches the snow continue to fall in the headlights of the truck, stark white in the beams like falling stars. Soon, he hears the distinct clatter of metal on metal and Alistair jumps smoothly back into the driver’s seat.

“Yeah, I can help. Just let me back up a second…” He twists around, expertly backing the truck up until it’s lined up with Fenris’ car; the whole time, not a single other car appears on the road. Fenris is lucky indeed. “Okay, I’m gonna hook your car up to mine, so you might as well hop out and get in yours.”

“Thanks.”

“Hey, it’s no problem. Well, it’s not my problem, at least. Helping you isn’t a problem. For me.” Alistair laughs, then coughs. Fenris is already outside and closes the door before he can verbally dig himself deeper.

The chain is looped around a trailer hitch on Alistair’s truck; by their tail-lights, Fenris drops to his knees in the snow, resigned to a lifetime of being cold, wet and pissed, and finds part of the Kia’s frame to hook the chain onto.

From there, thankfully, it’s easy; Alistair pulls forward and to the side, Fenris backs up, and both vehicles end up more or less on the road. Granted, if there were any traffic they’d be blocking it, but even with the rush to get home there’s no one else around. Something Fenris is uncomfortably aware of, especially as he watches the snow accumulating on the road.

“You might wanna take a different route to wherever it is you’re going,” Alistair suggests, as Fenris hands back the chain. “No offense.”

“None taken.” He could have died, honestly, and Fenris is aware that he should care a little bit more about that, but the cold has seeped through his skin and it’s headed towards his bones. He is tired, and miserable, and his sister will just have to go through the motions of a family tradition without him. “Think I’ll just head back to campus.”

“Oh, good,” Alistair replies, with a sudden empty flatness to his voice that implies he thinks nothing about that idea is good. “You can, uh. Probably have thanksgiving with Tabris’ family if you asked. She’s staying in Sundermount this year, but you. Knew that. Already.”

“Why would I--” Fenris cuts himself off. He would like to credit all the crime-dramas he watches, really, and when he recounts the tale to Hawke later he will anyway. But in the moment, Fenris knows it’s only the cold dreadful instinct of worst case scenario human stupidity that brings him to his conclusion. “You think we’re dating.”

“You’re… not?” Alistair blinks at him, deer caught in the headlights. Or in this case, tail-lights, as they’re standing in the red glow in between their vehicles as the snow continues to fall.

On a good day, Fenris doesn’t have time to be caught up in a love triangle - of all the fucking things! - and today is not a good day. “No,” he informs Alistair, his tone hard and his words cutting. “We’re not. So do everyone a favor and buy her some coffee when you get back from break.”

“Oh,” Alistair says in reply, soft and a little vacant. And then, with much more dread slash enthusiasm, “Do you think--”

“Alistair,” he cuts him off, rubbing his (cold, numb) fingertips into his (cold, tense) forehead as he fights down the start of a tension headache. “This is not the time to talk about this. And I am not the person to talk about this with. Go home.”

“Right. Yes. Um…” Alistair pats Fenris awkwardly on the shoulder with his free hand. “I’ll see you Monday!”

Fenris doesn’t bother to refute him; he just retreats back to his own vehicle, texts his sister the change in plans, and re-routes his borrowed GPS. It's not worth dying to get home for Thanksgiving, and all he needs in this world right now is a really, really stiff drink.

* * *

The week off in his apartment is surprisingly good for him. Or enjoyable, at least. He studies, he orders delivery, he drinks and watches movies. Rinse and repeat every day, with only slight variations in between; like watching a tutorial on how to roast a chicken and only slightly overcooking it on Thursday, and finding a booklet on the cruelty of the poultry industry in his mailbox on Friday. On Saturday, he spends an hour wondering if his apparent ‘dating’ affected his relationship with Hawke, and then three hours drinking and shaming himself for thinking about that at all, and by the time Monday rolls around he feels like he might end up taking over for Alistair as the resident spruce.

It’s still good, though. Even when he calls his sister for fifteen minutes on Sunday afternoon and he hangs up on her mid-sentence. Which is why he feels a little surge of hope when he sees, through the windows of the Hung Man after class on Monday, that the advertisement on the chalkboard has been wiped clean.

He waits, tense and overflowing like a blister, at the crosswalk for the walk signal; and then he all but runs into the cafe. Hawke is there, with a box on the counter, and Fenris feels a bit too much like he’s coming home. And consequently doesn’t notice Alistair until they nearly run into each other.

“Sorry-- oh!” And Alistair’s smile is Christmas light bright, matching the decor draping the cast iron chandelier in the sitting area. Fenris takes in a short breath that’s warm with coffee and cold with peppermint as his savior from last week babbles on. “Thanks for the advice! Wish me luck!”

He raises a paper cup in a toast - a paper cup that Fenris knows is filled with Candy Cane Lane coffee - and charges recklessly across the street to Alien Age. Fenris watches him go, heart slowly sinking to settle in the soles of his boots.

It was a terrible tradition anyhow. Stupid to wait here every day for so long, stupid to try to make friends with the barista. It doesn’t matter. It’s just-- fragile, useless habits.

Fenris takes in another breath and surveys the cafe with careful indifference. Yes, there are the fake evergreen branches and the shelves laden with mugs and bags and thermoses and tea strainers. Yes, there are the red ribbons and the scarlet-striped paper lining the pastry case, and there is even Hawke in festive plaid, smiling across the room at him like he of all people is still welcome here.

One last purchase, then. For old time’s sake. And then he’ll go back to his apartment and study and pack and steel himself to go home for that long, long break between semesters; and he will be fine. He is fine.

He was stupid.

Fenris keeps his eyes down, flipping through the bills in his wallet and he really shouldn’t buy this after what he spent this weekend, but. “Medium peppermint coffee, please.”

“Only a medium?” Hawke asks. “I assumed you’d want more.”

“Why would you--”

A paper cup slides into his line of sight; large, unassuming, with a dark brown lid. Fenris hesitates, then takes the top off; whipped cream drizzled with a red-tinted syrup floats in a creamy sea of coffee that is, unmistakably, peppermint.

He turns the cup. FENRIS :) is written on it, crisp and confident in permanent marker.

“Made it just before Alistair walked in. He let your name slip somewhere in his chatter about all his hopes and dreams being restored. So technically,” and he can hear the smile in Hawke’s voice, “it’s still the first cup.”

“Really,” Fenris hears himself remark, as a hand with scarred wrists puts the lid back on the coffee. A slightly unsteady hand, and a voice to match. “How much do I owe you?”

“Nothing,” Hawke replies, and it feels a bit too much like everything so Fenris nods, swallows, and tries to speak again.

“Thank you, Hawke. It’s-- good.”

“Can’t say it’s good until you try it.” Fenris looks up; Hawke nods across the street. “If you take a sip now, you can probably just beat Tabris to the first taste too.”

It takes some nerve, and some frantic blowing into the little opening on the lid, but he does take a sip while the coffee is still hot. It almost burns him, and for a wretched moment he feels the scars on his chest and neck light up with memory; but then the cream and the peppermint kick in, cooling and soothing, sweet and smooth.

“Good,” he croaks again, throat tight. He offers Hawke the sincerest smile he has, one that he hopes conveys a bit of the everything that he feels. The barista grins back.

“Garrett Hawke,” he says, reaching his hand across the counter. “Six year senior since none of my community college credits transferred, oldest of three, Aquarius. Nice to meet you.”

He only hesitates a moment before he clasps Hawke's hand, feels the ripples and valleys of his scars against the other man's palm, but holds his gaze steady.

“Fenris Arvense, currently a freshman but hopefully my credits transfer. Oldest of two. Aries, I think.”

Hawke - he doesn't look like a Garrett, and his nametag reads Hawke - shakes his hand enthusiastically like they're meeting for the first time.

“So… Friends?” asks Hawke. Fenris spares him the smallest of eye rolls, even though it's a good question. He's cautious by nature, caustic by choice, and if he's honest - which he tries to be, most of the time - he doesn't have a lot of experience with this. But Hawke makes it feel easy, and feel like something worth trying.

“I suppose I can do friends.”

Hawke bites the inside of his lip and still manages to grin mischievously. “Mm, I can't say I’d protest to that,” he teases suggestively, and Fenris can't entirely smother his laugh. The whole situation is a little ridiculous. One might even say it's terrible.

The door opens behind him and Fenris realizes he's still in front of the counter; so he deliberately and calmly heads for his typical chair, coffee in hand and a suspiciously hot feeling in his cheeks.

He hears a distinctly female, distinctly Isabela voice remark “ _well_ ” as loud and as obvious as anything he’d care to hear, and he very deliberately takes another sip. Across the street, through two sets of windows, he watches Tabris take a sip of her own coffee and, he assumes, returns the smile that’s practically splitting Alistair’s face in two. So that’s settled, at least for the moment. He wonders - and hopes rather fervently for the contrary - if she’ll bring it up next time he sees her.

Another sip, and he lets his grip linger around the cup, soaks in the gentle radiating heat of it and shares a small, private smile with the empty table.

Maybe it is a little terrible of a tradition, but that doesn’t mean he shouldn’t do it. It doesn’t mean it can’t matter to him, just like how he still finds Hawke’s jokes amusing even as he could groan with how bad they are. It’s subjective. It’s his.

The coffee is cool enough to drink by the time Hawke joins him, a massive cinnamon roll drowning in icing that nearly spills over the edge of the plate in his hand. There are conspicuously no pecans, but two forks.

“On break?” he asks. Hawke’s not wearing his apron, and in the red plaid he looks so much like the paper towel mascot Fenris is tempted to call him out on it.

“Taking my dinner break, yeah.” Hawke settles back into the chair opposite Fenris and pushes the plate into the center of the table. “Want any?”

Fenris accepts the other fork and manages to saw off a small portion with the tines. “Not a fan of pecans?”

“Too much like walnuts. I hate walnuts.”

“It sounds like there’s a story behind that,” he encourages, taking another bite of cinnamon roll. It tastes fresher than the ones Fenris usually gets, like it was made especially for Hawke, and then he wonders just how many friends Hawke has. What that must be like. To trust and earn trust so easily.

But Hawke is grinning at him again so he tunes back into the present, just in time to catch the start of a very enthusiastic story. “So, I grew up in this tiny little town called Lothering, and by the church there was this huge black walnut tree…”

* * *

If someone were to ask him why he liked Hawke, Fenris would probably tell them it's none of their business and that would be the end of that conversation. But if he had to ask himself that same question, he couldn't come up with anything really profound. It's just that Hawke is kind, and funny, and moderately attractive in his own terrible, lumbaristajack, subjective way and it's this kind of person that he wants in his life right now. Hawke doesn't complete Fenris - he knows enough not to look for his missing pieces in other people - but he makes each day a little bit better. And that's enough.

That, and the peppermint coffee he has ready for Fenris every Monday.

But today isn't a Monday; it's Saturday, the last day of finals week and he's just finished his last exam. The marble stairs in front of the English building are slick and icy, so he grips the handrail carefully and can still feel the chill of the metal bite through his gloves.

Merrill is right behind him, nervously chattering about their test, words flowing from her mouth like water down a storm drain.

“--knew that thing about the mirror, but then when it got to the pantheon I just feel like I passed out for ten minutes--”

It's taken him most of the semester to get used to her, but he knows it's best to just let her talk herself out. They're inevitably both headed to the Hung Man, anyway, even though it's just a little past eight in the morning. Hawke is taking this shift and asked Fenris to come by when he got off (complete with suggestive eyebrow wiggling and Fenris had only smiled a little, even _he_ has standards for these jokes) so he figured he could just burn a couple hours in the cafe waiting for him.

Besides, he still needs a gift for his sister. He was thinking about getting her some fancy tea, as sold by the cafe. And since Merrill has insisted on coming with him, he may as well employ her to pick something out.

But his first stop is Alien Age.

Merrill follows him in and immediately heads over to a Captain Morgan display, chattering something gleeful about Isabela and body shots; Fenris heads in the opposite direction, where the wines are stacked. His step father loves wine. He’s sorely tempted to get a bottle and spike it with something toxic from the chemistry labs. No one would miss the old asshole.

“Christmas gift shopping?”

Tabris is restocking the beer section a few feet away, and studying him carefully. He lowers his voice.

“For someone I don't like, but is paying my tuition. For now.”

Her eyebrows arch in reply, and the relief that follows is mingled with good natured humor. “Get the citrus Moscato. Fancy brand but it's cheap and tastes a lot like piss.”

“You sound like you know this from experience.”

She shrugs. “We’ve all had interesting lives. Want me to ring you up?”

He does.

Merrill is waiting for him at the door when he retreats, the bottle wrapped in brown paper and with a little golden silk bow around the neck. They cross the street together in an almost friendly silence, and when they enter the Hung Man he’s the first to speak.

“I need a tea for my sister. Can you help me pick one out?”

Immediately, she's off; trotting over to the display and grabbing tins off the shelves, explaining in great detail the virtues of each. Fenris only half listens as he plays with a bit of artificial holly in a bunch on top of the pastry case.

“Pity there isn't any mistletoe in here.”

He looks up to find Hawke watching him fondly from the other side of the counter, at home among all the pumps and machines and bottles of flavored syrup.

“There isn't?” Fenris asks, checking the ceiling just in case. “Poor Isabela.”

“She gets enough on her own, she doesn't need strange traditions to help her,” Hawke assures him.

“Fenris,” chirps a third voice, “is she allergic to caffeine?”

“What? Oh,” and he remembers his errand. Merrill is juggling seven different tins with surprising grace and enthusiasm. “No, but I don't think she really likes black tea. She drinks it instant usually. And iced.”

Merrill makes a horrified face and nearly drops a couple tins.

“Just get whatever you like. I trust your judgement.” Which isn't entirely true, but it makes her smile and also gives him more time to pick out one last baked good before he leaves for home.

Everything is packed up at home for the trip, but Fenris has to remind himself it's not forever. Only for a few weeks. That sinking feeling is still present though, and almost enough to affect his appetite.

“Have you had one of Duncan’s Danishes yet?” Merrill asks over his shoulder, startling him out of his thoughts. “They're really good.”

Before he can reply, the door to the Hung Man is thrown open. “Fenris!” calls a familiar voice, and he turns to see Alistair, bits of flour and butter still clinging to his apron and a paper bag in his hand.

“Um,” he replies eloquently as the bag is thrust in his hands. It feels rather heavy and slightly warm.

Alistair beams at him. “Tabris texted me that you were here; I'm in the middle of a batch of cinnamon rolls next door, but I heard you liked peppermint so I made you some candy cane cookies!”

Fenris peeks inside the bag; golden, soft cookies speckled with red and white candy are nestled comfortably inside, smelling irresistibly of mint and white chocolate.

“Thank you,” he replies simply and softly, a little unsure as to what else to say. Alistair waves briefly to Hawke, then pats his apron self-consciously.

“Well, I've got to get back to work before something burns, so happy Christmas, everyone!”

He jogs back outside into the cold, leaving a faint cloud of flour in his wake. Fenris throws Hawke a questioning glance that feels a bit like a lifeline.

The barista shrugs. “Guess you've made another friend.”

“Is that so.” All he did was lose his patience with the guy almost a month ago. Odd. Fenris holds out his hand for the chosen tin of tea, and Merrill obliges. “One tin of…. Jasmine Green tea, and a medium Candy Cane Lane.”

The coffee is done by the time he hands over his cash, and he retreats to drink it in peace as Merrill steps in behind him and starts relaying her experience with her last exam to Hawke. He takes in the decor with another, softer wave of resignation; the Christmas lights are starting to droop around the chandelier, greenery is falling off in other places, and yet the cafe is bustling. Every chair is taken, including his usual one.

But Varric gets up and moves when he catches Fenris’s eye, and he pats him lightly on the forearm as he passes. “Merry Christmas, elf.”

“Merry Christmas,” he replies, taking the still-warm seat and watching Varric walk away. Maybe he's a little less alone than he realizes.

Fenris pulls out the novel he’s been working on all semester and eases himself into reading. The hum of background conversation is distracting, and he ends up re-reading the same paragraph several times before he gets into the flow of the story; but a few cookies and most of his coffee later, Hawke’s appearance still comes as a surprise.

“Ready to go?” Hawke asks, a ring of keys jangling musically around his index finger.

He packs his things with a half shrug and deliberate, careful movement. As ready as he’ll ever be, knowing that he’ll be loading up the car as soon as he gets home. “Sure.”

They head out back to Hawke’s truck - which is somehow even older than Alistair’s - and Fenris hauls himself into the front seat like he’s done time and again. There's a pair of tassels hanging from the rear-view mirror from Hawke’s siblings’ high school graduation and a necklace that once belonged to his mother; he untangles the tassels from the small, forked charm and smooths them down by the time Hawke starts up the engine.

Fenris offers Hawke a cookie. “Take some. I can't eat all these myself.”

“You could always freeze them,” but he holds his hand out anyway, hazel eyes still focused on the traffic. Fenris has the absurd idea to hand-feed him cookies, but that feels like far too soon. Instead he passes one over with no fanfare and watches Hawke take a blind bite. “Mmmm, nice. I'll have to try to get the recipe out of Alistair when I get back.”

“Do you think he’ll share it with you?”

“I have my ways of coercion,” Hawke gloats; and then his expression falters. “Not--not like that, don't-- Alistair is very, very straight.”

“Is he.” Fenris hadn't taken the ‘coercion’ thing very seriously, but it's a little amusing to watch Hawke flounder. Unfortunately, he recovers by the time they reach Fenris’ apartment.

“Oh, hang on,” and Hawke parallel parks with enviable ease, “I've got something for you.”

Fenris’s grip tightens on the paper bag, making it crumple in protest as the briefest flicker of joy is weighed down by guilt and dread. “I didn't get you anything.”

“Unless you count almost two months worth of tips, plus picking up the tab last time we got pizza,” Hawke starts to list as he stretches for something in the back seat. “It's nothing big, anyway.”

“Still.” He feels uncomfortable; it didn't even occur to him to get something for Hawke, not with everything else that’s been happening.

“If you feel bad, just bring me something back when you get back to campus. So long as it's before January 25th it still totally counts as a Christmas present. Here we are.”

Hawke huffs as he withdraws a small, elongated box wrapped in plaid paper (of course) and hands it over. Fenris is starting to worry if he can even carry all his things inside.

“Am I supposed to--”

“Go on and open it now.”

He can't resist asking as he shakes the box very gently. “It's not a dildo, is it?” he manages with a straight face.

“No!” Hawke blurts, then makes a face. “I might have considered it, though.”

“Gross,” he chides, and tears off the paper and opens the box. Inside is a tall, glass bottle with a nozzle on top, gleaming in the sunlight. “This is,” he starts, a flicker of unease in the back of his mind that always, always reminds him to be careful.

“Candy Cane Lane. I figured you might miss it when you’re home, so. I also might have stolen it.”

Bullshit. Varric probably knew what Hawke was doing the whole time. Still, it's…

“Thank you, Hawke.”

“Hey,” and Hawke leans across the seats to catch his eye, offering him a shy smile. “You'll still come back to the Hung Man even when we switch to White Knight Chocolate for Valentine’s Day, right?”

“Who names these flavors?” Fenris marvels, as he finds the simple label of Peppermint on his bottle. “That was-- an obvious question. Forget I said anything.”

Hawke laughs, gently, and then a silence settles over the inside of the car. A significant one.

“You can always--”

“No,” Fenris cuts him off before Hawke can make a promise he shouldn't keep. “I'll be fine. This is your first Christmas without your mother. I don't want to take you away from your family.”

“You wouldn't be,” Hawke assures him, but Fenris has made up his mind. He gathers up his things and opens the truck door, sliding off the seat and landing neatly on the snow.

But he stands there, indecisive and cold, his arms filled with things others have given him even when he had nothing to offer in return, and feels something welling up in the back of his throat. Something that chokes his words when Hawke asks, distantly, “forgetting something?”

“Yes,” he croaks, and before he can second guess himself, Fenris hops back into the truck. His pulse is fluttering underneath the scars on his wrists and his neck and everywhere else, but all that matters is the brief moment of anticipation as he grabs Hawke by the collar of his shirt and kisses him.

It's fast and hard and his aim is off by a centimeter; Fenris does it again and this time it's better, and he can almost taste a hint of peppermint cookie on Hawke’s lips before he withdraws. This time, he hits the ground a little less gracefully, and he bundles up his gifts with a scarlet face.

“I'll come back,” he calls, as he swears he watches a blush creep across Hawke’s face through the windshield of the truck. “I promise.”

“Merry Christmas, Fenris!” is the muffled reply, and Fenris heads inside his apartment building. And then as the door closes behind him with the dull thud of finality, Fenris lets go of all those choking, dizzying feelings and succumbs. They’re frightening and overwhelming, closing over his head like an ocean, but it's soothing as well. Tabris, Merrill, Varric, Alistair-- more people and different people than he ever expected to meet. And Hawke, of course, Hawke above all, who welcomed him in time and again when he was just that guy who liked peppermint.

He will come back from this trip home. He will. And everyone will be waiting for him when he does. Fenris treasures that thought like a hidden charm, an ace in the hole, a last bastion against whatever might happen when he sees Danarius again. Wraps his fingers into a fist and presses it against his heart.

“Merry Christmas,” he exhales, and leans against the door. Merry Christmas, indeed.


End file.
